by Ricky Fleet
“Help me up,” came another voice, and Tattoo hand reached down, pulling another man out of the hole. Though sporting fewer markings, his eyes were shifty and calculating, making him seem just as dangerous.
“Hurry up, you fucking pussy,” Shifty Eyes growled down the hole.
A third man rose into view, but had a look dissimilar the first two. His face was heavily bruised and fresh blood was running from the nose. Dabbing at the injury, he shied away from the attention of the two violent looking thugs.
“Stay here and keep watch,” said Tattoo, staring menacingly at the cowed figure.
“You move an inch and I may just take my turn on your wife tonight,” said Shifty, banging him in the chest. It was a challenge, but the terrified man stared at the ground, refusing to rise to the bait, “Nothing to say?”
“He’s a faggot. I’d cut the heart out of any man who looked twice at my bitch,” declared Tattoo.
“You are lucky she was such an ugly cunt then aren’t you?” joked shifty and Tattoo laughed.
The beaten man coughed and Tattoo grabbed him by the throat, “You think that was funny?” he snarled.
“I’m sorry, I was just coughing,” he struggled to choke the words through his compressed neck.
Pulling him close, Tattoo spat in his face and backhanded him, sending him sprawling into the snow. Jodi had to fight every instinct to jump up and smash their heads with her bat. As it was, she might have to do it anyway if they were here for the farm store. Watching closely, they sauntered off down the alleyway and she waited until they were gone from view before standing. The man gaped at her, astonished by the woman standing only ten feet away.
Hurrying around the car, she said urgently, “Quickly, come with me, you will be safe.”
He backed away and nearly stood in the yawning hole in the ground, “No, just get out of here. They will hurt you if they catch you, please just go.”
“Don’t worry about them, we have guns,” she tried to convince him.
“You don’t understand, they have my family,” he said, anguish contorting his face.
“We can help, just come with me. I will get my friends and we can take out those two bastards,” Jodi attempted to take his hand but he slapped it away.
“That will be even worse, if we aren’t back in time the others will know something is up and they will torture my wife again, maybe kill her,” he sobbed, dropping to his knees.
“But we have guns, we can come back with you and rescue them,” Jodi was acutely aware of the ticking seconds and the fact she had no idea how long the thug’s errand would take.
“They have guns too, and they watch the tunnels. If I brought you and your friends back, they would just collapse it on top of us without a shot being fired. One of the things I was made to design was a failsafe in case the zombies ever managed to breach the tunnel. There is a rope system attached to the side braces which they can trigger in seconds, dropping tons of earth on top of them,” he explained.
The predicament of the poor man was insurmountable at the moment, but his evident weakness threw up another question, “Why did they bring you out here instead of one of their own?”
“You mean a thug, or murderer, rather than a coward?” he said, finally standing.
“I wouldn’t say you are a coward; you’ve made it this far. But yeah, why not another prisoner?” she confirmed.
“My name is Jason Rechtman, I lived in Ford when the dead came for us. I was a structural engineer and worked from home a lot, so we fled for the prison hoping the guards would take us in. They did, but after a few days, the prisoners broke out and took over the place. Now they use us as their playthings, the sadistic bastards.” His face twisted into a mask of pure hatred, “They made me help build tunnels so that we could get past the thousands of walkers. I come with each raid to check the supports and general stability of the excavations. They threatened my wife and daughter if I didn’t comply… not that it helped.” A glazed look came over his eyes at the unspeakable acts he had seen carried out against his kin.
“How many of you are there? Families I mean,” Jodi pressed, hoping to glean as much information as possible from the exchange.
“I led almost thirty people here, and then a dozen or more arrived. After that, nobody living,” he said, shaking his head in guilt, “I wish I’d never bothered.”
“That was so heroic. Listen, don’t lose hope,” Jodi took his reluctant hand and met his bleak gaze, “We will come for you, I promise.”
“You will die.”
“After what we have fought through, a bunch of killers would be nothing,” she disagreed.
“Ok,” he whispered. Was that a faint glimmer of hope she detected?
“You said tunnels, plural. How many have you dug?” she asked, knowing their time was probably coming to a close.
“Two. One here to raid the shops, and one more into a section of field so that there is an escape route. There are more planned when we can get supplies from the railway storage yard,” he explained. There would be enough lumber to build a dozen or more if they could reach it.
“How is it even possible?”
“When you have a labor pool of two hundred strong men, anything can be done. The tunnel itself is only six-foot-high and three-foot-wide which saved us time. It’s only purpose was to bring food and small goods back, but I’m sure future excavations will be larger. They have us working around the clock and we average about twenty-five meters a day depending on what we find in the ground.”
“That’s amazing. You and your knowledge are going to be invaluable when it comes to fighting the undead.”
“Thanks,” Jason said, blushing. It was the first kind words he had heard in many weeks.
“Jason, what I want you to do is draw a map of the area if you have the chance. Mark any new tunnel locations and leave it in this car the next time you come back. Update it every time you are here,” instructed Jodi. The chances of a rescue would be hampered by the winter, so it would be months before any attempt could be made.
“I can do that,” he confirmed with a weak smile.
“Stay strong,” she finished and squeezed his hand.
Reluctantly walking away, she looked back and saw Jason was filling in her footprints with loose snow, concealing her passage. If the brutes had seen the footprints with no sign of a zombie the questioning would be harsh. Those marking the alleyway could be explained by earlier undead movement. With a last wave, she stepped into the farm store and nearly bumped into the men leaving. Kurt was heavily laden with tools strapped to his back; hoes, shovels, and picks clanked in the gloom. Holding a finger to her lips, she signaled for them to be silent. Outside, the faint voices could be heard and it was only the look on her face and the way she slowly shook her head that stilled them. With a thud, the sheet of wood had been dropped back into place, covering the tunnel from any wandering horror that may fall down it.
“What was that all about, who were they?” demanded Kurt.
“We have a lot to talk about,” she replied.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Baxter paced the quiet corridors, looking in on the slumbering troops in their bunks. He envied their respite from the savagery of modern life, rarely sleeping more than an hour at a time himself these days. His jumbled thoughts and decisions kept his mind turning over in an endless loop of conspiracy and scheming. Was he really losing his mind, were the soldiers right after all? Impossible! Only the truly insane are certain of their own sanity, seeing bedlam in the eyes of others.
“I was chosen,” he said to himself, looking out in the morning light on the snow covered scene.
Sergeant Rabson came sprinting around the corner, interrupted his thoughts, “Sir, we have a problem,” gasped the huge communications room guard, saluting.
“Oh?” Baxter raised an eyebrow.
“You need to hear this, we are being hailed by HMS Dauntless again,” Rabson explained.
“Lead the way, Sergeant,”
Baxter ordered and marched towards the radio room.
Corporal Graff was holding his head in his hands, scared witless. The sight of Baxter in the doorway was enough to make him drop to his knees and start wailing.
“Sir, I promise I didn’t have anything to do with it,” he cried, clutching at the legs of his superior.
“What on earth are you sniveling about, Corporal?” Baxter said with disgust and kicked him away.
“Dauntless have ordered a chopper to investigate our continued silence. They will be here in less than fifteen minutes. Sir, I swear I told Sergeant Rabson as soon as I heard,” Graff sobbed. He hadn’t forgotten the death threat from before should anyone feel the compulsion to investigate the barracks.
“Which direction are they approaching from?” demanded Baxter.
“Unknown, sir, they didn’t say.”
Baxter reached for his radio, “Fire team, is your radar surveillance operative awake? If not, get his ass out of bed, over.”
“Sir, I’m sorry but she went AWOL weeks ago to reach her family. I thought you had been informed, over,” came the apologetic reply.
“Fuck!” shouted Baxter. It was true, he had been told each and every person who had gone missing, as well as the gap it left in their battle readiness.
“Orders, sir?”
Baxter calculated the likely outcome of letting them land and trying to brazen the investigation. It would put his plans back, if not destroy them completely. The mistreated soldiers would not miss the opportunity to inform the hierarchy of what had occurred under his stewardship. That mustn’t be allowed! How many helicopters would be still in commission, along with trained pilots to fly them? The remaining Chinooks on Thorney barracks were fueled and ready to go at a moment’s notice, with at least one crew being loyal to the new commander. Could the top brass keep sending them should an unfortunate “accident” befall the coming team?
“Sergeant, go to the armory and bring me an L115A3 sniper rifle. I will meet you at the gate, go!”
“Yes, sir!” Rabson yelled and sprinted off.
“Logistics, this is Baxter, over.”
“This is logistics, go for Baxter, over,” replied the ammunition technician.
“I want a Starstreak missile and shoulder launcher at the Vikings in three minutes, over,” Baxter shouted into the radio as he ran for the main parade ground.
“Affirmative, be there in three, sir. Over.”
The gate guards regarded Baxter with confusion as he raced across the snow covered ground, twisting around to look in all directions. The dawn was preternaturally silent, even the groans of the dead had ceased. The only noise was Baxter’s inhalations and the sound of the compacting snow underfoot as he turned.
“Sir, is everything alright?” called out one of the soldiers.
“Everything’s fine. Get back you your position,” Baxter shouted back and ignored the salute.
The first faint throbs pierced the still air, but it was impossible to ascertain a direction. Rabson came trotting, the long barreled rifle slung on his shoulder.
“Orders, sir?”
“Get in that tower,” Baxter pointed to an abandoned guard post, “Give the approach vector of the helo.”
Rabson reached the steps and climbed in double quick time. Pulling the dust caps from the scope lenses, he shouldered the weapon and started a scan in all directions. A Land Rover rolled slowly into view, opting for caution on the icy road with its explosive cargo. Pulling alongside Baxter, the young soldier climbed out and opened the rear doors of the vehicle. A thick metallic tube was secured firmly and a heavy box sat on the floor. Pulling the case out and laying it at their feet, Baxter unclipped the latches and laid the lid on the snowy ground.
“Get the missile ready,” said Baxter as he turned on the aiming unit of the shoulder launcher.
“Aye, sir,” replied the technician, lifting the sealed explosive and carefully sliding it into the firing tube.
“Sergeant, what do you see? Are they approaching by sea?” Baxter called out to his scout in the tower.
“Negative, sir. No sign of target over the water,” he shouted back, resuming his exploration of the low lying hills of the surrounding landmass.
The pitch of the rotor blades was increasing and the air hummed with the approaching craft. The guards were looking around for the source of the disturbance too, though for entirely different reasons.
“North- North East, sir. Coming in low,” yelled Rabson, gesticulating at the dark speck in the distance.
“Range?”
“About one mile,” replied the Sergeant.
Baxter knelt in the inches of snow, bringing the heavy launcher up to his shoulder and placing one eye over the targeting lens. The barrack’s windsock was unmoving, laying gently against the pole so no air movement needed to be taken into account. The aiming unit enhanced the image and he could make out the shadows of the two pilots in the helicopter.
“What the fuck is he doing?” shouted one of the guards in horror.
“Stand down, soldier,” ordered Rabson to the defiant man who was scrambling down the flight of steps to stop his superior, all too late.
The trajectory had been calculated by the onboard computer and the tube belched out the missile with a puff of quickly extinguished fire, a feature designed to protect the gunner. Hanging in midair for a fraction of a second, the rocket ignited it’s second propulsion system and blazed towards the approaching airship. Being totally unprepared for a hostile reception, the helicopter pilot barely tried to avoid the impact, only veering right at the last second. It was too late for the doomed men, and the impact delayed fuse ignited the explosives, destroying them in a white hot fireball. It dropped from the sky like a falling sun, trailing black smoke and debris before landing among some homes with an ear ringing blast and a roiling cloud of fire as the excess fuel erupted.
“You fucking lunatic, that was an Army chopper,” snarled the furious guard.
Swinging a punch at Baxter, the commander only needed to twist slightly to the left. The knuckles impacted the side of the aiming box and the skin split open, causing the soldier to cry out and clutch at the wound. Passing the launcher to the technician, Baxter opted for the tried and tested kick to the groin, laying the man flat out on the ground.
“You really shouldn’t have done that,” said Baxter to the man who was trying to claw at the vomit inducing agony between his legs.
“Sorry, sir. I didn’t want to take the shot in case I hit you,” apologized Rabson who came rushing over, pistol at the ready.
“Not to worry, Sergeant, take him away and prepare the troops for another execution at midday.”
Baxter moved away, ignoring the gawping stares and looks of hatred from the freshly woken soldiers staring out of the barracks windows. The fire raged in the distance, consuming the neighboring properties and threatening to spread out of control with no emergency services to respond. Private Beth Eldridge glared pure poison at the psychopath, one face among the masses.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“You bastard, I think you broke me,” Debbie whispered, one leg draped over the warm body of Mike.
“I didn’t hear you complaining, though you did scream loud enough to wake the dead. I nearly had to smother you again,” he joked, placing a hand over her mouth and nose.
“It’s not funny, you could have killed me!” she complained and swatted his hand away, turning her back to him like a petulant child.
“And your tantrums could have got us both killed,” Mike responded, moving in behind and reaching around to squeeze one of her breasts.
She replied with a sulky harrumph and tried to pry his hand away with little conviction. It was nice to be getting some attention, to have him fawning over her for however short a time it may be. She knew it was purely his need for sexual release, he was a man after all. But it gave her some small measure of power over him, and that was something to be grateful for. Pushing away with more intent, he only squee
zed harder until her flesh sang with pain. Another hand roamed between her legs, delving, and she was helpless to resist. The power struggle was lost again, but the intense pleasure made it a price worth paying.
***
“You’re a letch,” Debbie giggled, forcefully squeezing her legs together to prevent another performance.
“I can’t help it if I have needs,” Mike said, trying to worm his fingers between the tense flesh.
“Your needs will see us fucking until we either starve or freeze to death. We need to get moving,” she said, allowing one last gentle tease.
“Ok, I’m moving,” he moaned, shucking off the sleeping bag, “Fuck me, that’s cold!”
“No shit, Sherlock,” she laughed and passed him a jumper.
Tossing it on, he managed to try and squeeze his head through an arm hole in his haste. In fits of laughter at the spectacle, Debbie helped him to twist the garment and pull it down. Their eyes met and for a moment, they just looked at one another.
“I’m really sorry I hurt you yesterday,” he said tenderly, stroking her face. It was one of the rare gestures of compassion and she held his cold hand to her warm skin, before kissing the palm.
“I know I can be a bitch. I will try and keep my mouth shut in the future, ok?” she said earnestly. She knew that her outbursts could be fatal in the new world and would try to control her temper.
“About fucking time,” he replied, back to his sarcastic self. In spite of her flaws, she was growing on him and he felt mildly guilty for the attempted murder.
“Asshole!” she smiled and punched his tattooed arm playfully.
After dressing and repacking their gear, they were ready for the next leg of their journey. Mike had looked around the shelves at the supplies and wrapped two hammers, some nails and several boxes into a blanket to dull their noise.
“What do you need that stuff for?” Debbie inquired. She glared fearfully at the hammers, a talisman of their enemy; Kurt Taylor.
